


Blue-Ball Special

by gloss



Category: due South
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-02
Updated: 2006-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All that matters to everyone else, though, is the face. The Bookman's face is the thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue-Ball Special

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly AU from Dr. Longball

When the Bookman comes to call, everyone pays attention. That's *why* he comes calling. They all stand up a little straighter, move a little faster and more efficiently, strive to impress him in myriad ways. The bartender takes down the good whiskey, the sound system switches over to Peggy Lee, and the girls in their retro outfits walk with a little more swish, a slightly greater jiggle.

This place is *heaven*. It's Langostini's baby, his refuge and greatest achievement since the car crash. Since he returned, rejuvenated and bursting with new ideas.

Crime, Fraser told Vecchio once, is like a parasite. Something evil that latches into the souls of men, going deep and sucking them dry.

In response, Ray cracked a bad joke about Fraser sucking the *evidence* dry ( _And I mean that_ literally, _Benny, you get it?_ ). What he really wanted to say, he didn't have the words for. It was more an image; crime's not a bug or a worm that comes in from the outside. Evil's deep in the marrow, and some people just act on it.

Vegas just makes him sure of it. He's got Langostini's face and the *Ray* of him is the little parasite, dug deep in, that he has to nourish to stay alive.

All that matters to everyone else, though, is the face. The Bookman's face is the thing.

He stops at the bar, accepting the drink that's waiting for him, and flips through the receipts. He hums a little to himself as he pretends to study the numbers.

"And the girls?" he asks Jamal, the bartender. "How're they?"

He's made this place, with its private humidors and classy girls, far more upscale than he's used to. It's new territory for the Iguana family, too, so his extra attention to the daily operations is praised, rather than questioned.

The girls are healthy, beautiful, and happy. "Got a new one, in fact --" Jamal points to a corner booth. "Cherie. She's real good."

Langostini squints in her general direction. Old Vegas was glitz and pounding, constant activity; this place is -- or so he told Stevie Iguana when he pitched the idea -- new Vegas. Dark, exclusive, classy. *Real* dark, though, so he moves closer.

So dark that he can't see much of the new girl. Just flashes of tanned skin on long legs and up her curved back as she dances over some guy's leg. She's rising, falling, her ass just *perfect*, melon-round and firm, beneath the guy's hovering, roaming hands. She slides around, backing up against the mook's crotch, and lets her head fall back. Long curly red hair drifts over the guy's face and if Langostini knows anything, he knows her hair must smell like gardenias.

Their hair *always* smells sweeter than the rest of the world.

The guy's hands come around her waist. He's playing by the rules, just like she is, never quite touching, but always so close that anyone could slip up at any time. His hands are ghost-white in the dimness as they drift up over her small, high tits. His thumbs and forefingers crook together, pantomime a flick-twist-*pinch* on each nipple.

"Oh, yeah, she's good," Langostini says. The ice rattles in his glass. He tries to ease his grip, but no luck.

Langostini's men, Fey Eddie and Robbo, elbow each other and agree with their boss.

Time for a show, he thinks. That voice could be Vecchio *or* Langostini.

They agree a lot more often than either would care to admit.

A show, because he needs the men to keep seeing him in action. Best way to get someone to believe is never let them look away.

The nuns, shoving the crucifix against his face, taught him that. So did Michael Corleone.

John Wayne, too.

"Cherie?" Langostini asks, soft enough to seem polite, loud enough to be heard over the music. He gives her his best smirk. "Good to meet you, I'm --"

"I know who you are," she says, grinding the air over the guy's crotch. Blessed Jesus, she's a knockout. Sweet, *sweet* tits and a smile like neon.

"Hey," her customer protests as Cherie -- who's clearly a smart girl and knows who's buttering her bread -- rises away and takes Langostini's offered hand. "*Hey*!"

A quick appraising glance assures Langostini that the guy's no one he needs to worry about. Just a loser drinking in the middle of the afternoon -- scruffy dyed-blond hair, dark at the roots, a few days' growth of beard on his sharp, ferrety face. In those jeans and clinging t-shirt, it's a wonder he even got into the club.

There *is* a dress code, after all; Langostini makes a mental note to speak to the doorman about that. It's all about the details.

"Sorry," Langostini tells the schlub dismissively. "Business beckons."

A second ago, the ferret was sprawled bonelessly in the banquette. Now he's sitting up, leaning over the little table, his eyes narrowing. Pissed.

"I paid my money, you can't just --"

Langostini glances at Eddie and Robbo, making sure they see this. "Oh, but I *can* just."

Ferret's hands close into fists and his chin juts out as Langostini pulls Cherie up against his side. Just like he thought, she smells sweet. Her skin's warm with exertion, molding against his side.

"I *paid*," Ferret insists.

"Go talk to Jamal at the bar," Langostini tells him. "Say I'm giving you the blue-balls special."

Ferret's jaw works for a couple moments. He's stronger, Langostini realizes, than he looks at first. Just bone and sinew, all coiled up. Dangerous.

Or he would be, if Langostini was just some asshole in a bar. But he's the asshole who *owns* this bar. That makes all the difference.

Langostini's got the power, and it fucking *sizzles* through him.

He wonders if Frankie Zucco ever felt this good.

Little bastard probably couldn't handle feeling like this.

"You want we should take care of this, Mr. L?" Robbo asks from just behind him.

Langostini waves him off and concentrates on the ferret. He turns a smile on him and watches him blink in confusion. "Who are you?"

Ferret jerks back, like kindness stings him. "Uh. Uh, Ben."

Langostini swallows hard and fast at the name. "You got a last name, Uh-Ben?"

His boys laugh appreciatively. The ferret's eyes dart. "Ben," he says. "Ben Tunn."

"Where you from, Ben Tunn?" Langostini's voice is steady, silky. Never mind Ray's little screeches; he knew the ferret's accent was Chicago right off. South Side, probably. But Langostini was St. Louis-born and -bred and wouldn't know that.

"Canada," he says. The Adam's apple bobs in "Ben's" throat before his eyes meet Langostini's. "I'm from Canada."

The name, place, *gaze* slice right through him. Langostini shoots his cuffs. "You don't say. Igloos and polar bears? You took all our hippie pussies back during Nam, am I right?"

"There's more than igloos. Some of us even have running water," Ben says and lifts his bottle of beer.

*Molson*. The little fucker's drinking Molson.

Langostini laughs and claps Ben on the shoulder. "I like his balls," he tells the boys. "I like *you*." He narrows his eyes slightly and Ben doesn't look away. "Let's go back to my office."

"But --" Cherie starts, then stops; Eddie probably shook his head behind Langostini. She's new. She doesn't know not to question the Bookman.

He pats her ass. Oh, *yeah*, it's firm as anything. "You come too, honey. Make it a party."

*

Ray's done his research. He's seen pictures of Vecchio, heard his voice on answering machine messages and deposition tapes. Hell, Ma Vecchio even got Tony to hook up the old projector to show him *home movies*.

All of that, and it's nothing like meeting the man in the flesh. For one thing, there's nothing *there* in the flesh -- no goony smile or sloping shoulders in loud shirts or *anything*. This is Langostini through and through, tall and darkly tanned, elegant in white shirt and linen trousers. Thin Gucci loafers on bare feet.

He moves smoothly, too; it makes Ray think of snakes in the sand back in Mexico, swish-swish.

But it's Langostini's eyes that are the most different. Like that means *anything* ( _Ray. *Ray*. Do try to be *slightly* logical._ ), but it *does*. Langostini's eyes are black and gleaming. *Hot*.

Hot and focused, watching Cherie dance over Ray.

No, Ben. He's *Ben*.

Langostini's behind his huge, black desk, sitting like a king, watching him and Cherie. She's dancing closer than would be legal in public, touching him with little glancing strokes and brushes of skin. Langostini just keeps watching them both, watching and evaluating.

There's got to be a way to find Vecchio in there.

He's just got less than no idea where to start.

He watches Langostini back, over Cherie's shoulder, trying like hell *not* to get distracted by how good she feels, how hot she smells. Ben brushes his knuckles up Cherie's taut stomach, back and forth, and sees Langostini's eyes flick, tracking the touch. Back and forth, back and forth. When he cups her tits, feeling her laugh and shiver, he sees Langostini's eyes widen. Just a little, but he catches it.

Cherie is damn good. Warm and, like, *shimmery*, all over him, teasing and torturing. Brushing against his chest, his face, his -- fuck, his *dick*. He's so hard, he's been this way for way too long.

He grips Cherie by the hips and thrusts up against her ass. Laughing again, she wiggles free, then presses back down. Langostini clears his throat and tips back his chair.

The last person Ray was this close to was *Fraser*. After the buddy breathing and inadvertent grope session in the sub, Ray had basically gotten to second base for the first time in seven months. He went all the way to that resort with Bonnie Levin and didn't even get a *kiss*.

The fact that Ray's *counting* Fraser is just fucking sad.

But he's not Ray, not here. Cherie's back in his, Ben's, lap, straddling him now, knees pushing into the leather armchair. He can't quite see Langostini, but she looks too good to ignore, so he licks across the top of her breasts, right where the swell begins, mouthing and murmuring.

He loses any sight of Vec--Langostini, but it's worth it. Cherie rocks into his lap, pushing her breasts in his face, and he clutches at her ass, flipping up the skirt, giving Langostini a good show. Nibbling down one bra strap, he actually gets her to make a sound that's not fake.

And now she's cupping his dick through his jeans. The growl scrapes up the back of Ray's throat and his fingers dig into her asscheeks.

Stella told him once that strip clubs had nothing to do with women, but were there so guys could work out their homo instincts safely. He shouted at her, screamed, asking why, then, were there *naked chicks* dancing around? And she kept right on telling him she was right and he yelled some more, something about not taking any more Women's Studies classes, that she was full of bullshit --

And, as he peers over Cherie's shoulder, finding Langostini's eyes, Stella might have had a point.

There are way too many people in this room, Vecchio and Langostini, Cherie and Stella, her face pinched white with scorn, and *Fraser*, clucking his tongue, reminding Ray that the exploitation of women is --.

Too many goddamned people. His homo instincts are just *fine*, just as strong as his hetero ones, and -- see? His hand's creeping up the inside of Cherie's thigh, touching skin that's waxed soft, heavenly, and the crotch of her panties is a little damp with what's probably sweat, but he'd like to think otherwise --

"That's enough," Langostini says. Low and *mean*. "I'm running a gentleman's club here, not --"

Ben snorts. He can't help it. *Gentleman's club*? Yeah, and his name really is "Ben".

When Cherie leaves his lap for the second time, kissing his forehead, he's twice as hard, twice as cold and fucking *needy* as he was the first.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Langostini says, showing her to the door. "You're going to make a great addition to our team here."

What, the mob's going corporate now? Ben snorts again, then scrubs his palms up over his face. He's hard and sweaty-cold and he should...get up. Right, get up. Get out of here, he's hard and half-drunk and he's in no shape to be stuck alone with -- with --

With *him*. Langostini. Loose-limbed, tanned to hell, hot black eyes. Vecchio.

 _He is my very best friend, of course. Brother to my heart, if you will..._

Shut up, Fraser.

Ray tries to find his feet, then his balance, but Langostini's right in front of him and easily pushes him back down into the chair. Stands there, over him, arms loosely crossed, for about a million years.

Ray's heart hammers right in his dick.

Real slow, so slow that the movement leaves tracers behind it, Langostini drops one hand. Long tan fingers brush over the fly of his linen trousers.

Christ, he's *adjusting* himself. "Uh. Mr. Langostini Bookman?"

"How do you know my name, *Ben*?" Okay, *that's* his mean voice; the one earlier might as well have been singing Happy Birthday.

Fuck.

No, double-fucking-motherfucker *fuck*, because Langostini isn't adjusting himself any more. He's *opening* his fly.

"Um, I heard it?" Ben -- and fuck *yes* he's Ben now, stupid drunk tourist stumbling in behind the curtain, finding himself way in over his head. "I -- what're you --?"

Shit, there's a *wet spot* on the front of Langostini's white silk briefs. And that's not the worst -- or the best, Ben's stupid and gaping, openmouthed and licking his lips at the promise. No, the best-worst fantasy-nightmare is that Langostini's easing down his briefs and taking out his cock.

His hard, shining cock.

"Ben," Langostini says. Or maybe that's Vecchio speaking; his eyes are closed, he's touching Ben's cheek with light fingertips and stroking himself slowly. Who knows what he's seeing? Who he's talking to? "Ben. Put it in your mouth."

Ben opens his eyes. They were closed? Fuck, they *were* closed and now they're open and Langostini's cock is right *there*, red-dark, twined with veins, the head shining wetly.

Langostini's hand slides into Ben's hair. His fingernails dig into the scalp, guide him forward with sharp little pains, and there are goons right outside the fucking *door* and he's got no gun but he does have a hard-on and a half in his pants, so hard he's spitting precome into the denim, and Ben licks his lips again.

It's a dare, right? Has to be.

Nothing in Langostini's eyes besides black and heat.

So Ben leans forward, fingers like claws tugging down Langostini's pants and briefs, scraping down the back of his thighs, over soft skin and he's --.

He's blowing Vecchio. Or Langostini. Or both. Gripping the hard, flat muscles of the man's ass -- so different from Cherie's, but just as hot, just as good -- with one hand while he kneads the other in his own crotch, over his dick, seeking clarity from the ache, then ripping open the buttons, and all the while he's --.

He's got his mouth on Langostini's dick. His dry -- no, it's wet now, filled with spit -- mouth on Langostini's cockhead, licking and slurping, hell if he knows what to do, and his hands on Langostini's balls, then his nails through close-trimmed pubes, finally, fingers wrapping around the base of the shaft, moving skin as thin as rice paper over heat and weight.

And he is, just to reiterate, because Ben, like Ray, is a little slow, dropped on his head too many times, and he can't believe *this*, he is. Blowing. The Bookman. *Slurping*, pressing the flat of his tongue against the slit and moving his lips up and down.

He gags, and Langostini just digs in his nails again, pushing forward. So Ben locks his lips over the head, swirls his tongue around, sucking down heat and taste like locker rooms and tide pools and *horniness* that slides down his throat and filigrees outward, under his skin, through his muscles, up his own dick. He jacks Langostini hard, sucks him harder, grunting and coughing and *slobbering*.

Langostini groans. His eyes flutter open, then squeeze shut. "Fuck, *Benny*, oh, fuck -- *Benny* --"

Fraser's here, too, watching and feeling and tasting with them.

Ben swipes his tongue over his thumb and index finger, gets them wet as he can, then pushes Langostini's thighs farther apart. Feels Langostini thrust into his mouth, stretching, *pushing*, and then -- he stills.

Freezes, really, because Ben's got his thumb stroking over the slick skin behind Langostini's balls, up into the clench of his buttocks, rocking now against his hole.

Ben moves his mouth tortuously slowly off Langostini's cock. "Gonna fuck you."

Langostini's fingers spasm, tugging at Ben's hair, then releasing. "Fuck *you*."

Ben thrusts against Langostini's thigh. God, that's *good*, so he does it again. No friction like unfamiliar skin. He tries to smile, but suspects he's grimacing. "Maybe later."

Langostini shudders as Ben licks a long winding path down Langostini's cock, then shudders *harder* when Ben nudges his thumb forward again.

Langostini's face is beet red, his breath coming ragged and shallow.

Ben licks back up, presses a little harder. Blows on the wet trail before he says, "You want it. Want Benny to fuck you."

At that, Langostini tips forward, cock skating over Ben's cheek, then braces himself with one hand on the wall. Ben laughs and Langostini *shakes*. "Shut the fuck up."

"Ben's gonna fuck you --" He leans back, knuckle then fingertip pushing against the tight hole, then cranes forward, pushing his mouth back down Langostini's cock, far as he can.

Too far, and he gags, splutters, but Langostini's moving now. His buttocks flex against Ben's hand, around it, and it's not going to be long now. Ben's finger gets in to the first knuckle and Langostini starts bucking. He lets out a weird sound, half a wail and half a sigh, like he's almost relieved, and it's long and slow while his hips move quick and jerky.

And Ben is -- Ben's not here, except as a finger fucking in and a mouth opening wide -- but Ray's not here, either, save for the hand wrapped around his dick, yanking out the pleasure. Langostini's so fucking tight that his finger's just *friction* inside heat, barely moving, getting squeezed and trying like hell to fuck.

He wants to know who's coming when Langostini's back arches and holds, when his hips drive his cock forward, deeper, then shove back and *twist*, rotating and screwing himself on Ben's finger. Who's coming, who's he seeing behind his lids as his fist beats the wall and he fucks himself forward and backward and forward. Until Ben's *not* wondering, just holding on and losing air, seeing black spots.

Langostini doesn't say anything, not a name or a clue. Just shoots, and keeps on shooting into Ben's mouth, over his spitsoaked chin and cheek.

For half a second, there's air and Ben gulps at it, but then Langostini is falling, like a demo'd building, collapsing over Ben. Over *Ray*, just Ray, and he pushes Ray's hand away to jerk him off, long tan fingers and manicured nails, pulling everything out of Ray as his mouth hoovers up the come and spit and sweat from Ray's -- Ben's -- face.

"C'mon," Langostini urges, hand in Ray's hair again, yanking his head back, exposing his throat. Biting the skin there, jerking harder. "Come on. Come for me --"

There are too many people here -- traces of Cherie's perfume, image of Fraser like a costume overlaying Ray, overlaying the Vecchio that Ray pretends to be, memory of Stella cleaning come off her hand with a wet wipe, nose wrinkled in distaste -- but for a second, as Ray's hips surge, then lock, and his spine fluoresces, he's *coming*.

Finally, he's coming, and someone's kissing him, and for three-four more jerking, shuddering moments, it's just him. Just the two of them. Just enough.

*

Half an hour later, the Bookman is clean and dressed, fragrant with aftershave, flicking through ledgers at his desk.

"Boss?" Robbo asks from the doorway.

"Yeah?" Langostini doesn't look up. The ferret's long gone. He might as well never have been here. "What is it?"

"Made calls. No trace of any Ben Tunn anywhere in the city," Robbo says. "You want I should --"

"No." He closes the ledger and feels Robbo watching him. Expecting something. "What do I always say about this town?"

"Uh." Robbo shuffles his feet. "People come here to, uh --"

"To be someone else," Langostini says and looks at Robbo. "That's right. Now leave me alone."

[end]  



End file.
